Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I

by Steve Moretti

  “Need a date?”

  “Maybe. Got training as a bodyguard?”

  “Is Lang still bothering you?” Philippe asked, his tone growing serious.

  “We don’t talk to each other, but seeing him take all the credit, and watching his head get bigger by the day, makes me want to cut off his baton arm,” Adeena said. “And anything else he might want to wave around.”

  Philippe laughed. “Could you wait till I’m back before you do something stupid. If there is going to be a mutilation, I need the inside scoop.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll give you an exclusive.”

  “I’d like an exclusive, with you.”

  There was a pause in the conversation. Adeena couldn’t remember the last time they made love or even just had a fun moment. She was his dark and stormy night, a cliché he should just close the book on. She wanted to feel passion again and be swept away.

  “I miss you,” she heard herself saying.

  “Adeena, I have so much to say to you. I believe in you, what you’re doing. That music’s inside of you. You belong on a big stage. And…” he hesitated.

  “And what?”

  “And… you belong with me.”

  THE HOT BLADE of a straight razor slowly carved the shaving cream from Friedrich Lang’s taut throat. He could feel it pull across him smartly, clearing the path ahead like a snowplow.

  “Tomorrow, Maestro?” the old barber asked in a thick Slavic accent. “You play new symphony?”

  “Ja,” Lang replied, looking up at the ceiling, face stiff to get a closer shave.

  “Will be good, no?” the barber said, shifting his attention to the back of Lange’s neck. He pushed the maestro’s head down and gingerly placed a hot towel on his next target.

  “Not ‘good,’ my friend. Magnificent!” Lang chortled.

  The barber grunted and without missing a beat began applying shaving cream and preparing his blade for round two. “You play your music, no?”

  “Ja.” This will be my music after tomorrow, Lang thought. For all anyone will ever know, he had created a tribute to the human spirit, to fulfilling one’s destiny, no matter the obstacles. If the world wanted to think of it as a tribute to Ludwig, so be it.

  “My wife, she see you on TV,” the barber continued, a steady patter that Lang usually found annoying, but today judged it to be of much higher quality.

  “I did a lot of interviews the last few weeks, even the BBC and Radio Deutschland. They wanted to do a segment on me for their Beethoven retrospective.”

  “Beethoven? Oh yeah, he’s good,” the barber chirped.

  Lang wondered if the man had ever even heard a Beethoven symphony. Probably he was just very good at engaging his clients. Either way, Friedrich Lang and Ludvig Van Beethoven had been used together in the same sentence in most of the stories broadcast or published on the new work.

  At last, something was going to happen that he had longed for since trying to compose his first piece of music as a young man. ‘Friedrich Lang’ would be a name remembered long after he departed this world.

  The barber moved on to trimming Lange’s sideburns, and tidying up the long ends of his greying mane. The man was a craftsman in own domain, painstakingly trimming and checking each cut. He remained silent, reading Lange’s mood, as the maestro slipped into his own thoughts.

  Tomorrow, when this work is unveiled to the world, my life will change, he thought. Whether he transcribed the notes on paper or not, this music was his - and he alone would give it birth. He saw the effect it had on his own orchestra, and even the bumbling NAC minions who came to watch the rehearsals.

  When the two thousand men and women who filled Southam Hall tomorrow evening heard this music, along with the usual horde of music critics, he would become known as the composer of Voyages of Destiny and achieve musical reverence. He cared not that the real composer wouldn’t share any of the glory. Without Friedrich Lang, this work would have remained unknown. It was his arrangements and his persistence that brought it to the world.

  He had known from the first time he played it with Adeena Stuart in his private chambers, that this was no ordinary composition. It had the rare gift of changing those who experienced it.

  As the barber finished up and turned him around to see himself in the mirror, he looked at his reflection and saw a composer who was twenty-four hours away from changing the world.

  24

  ADEENA’S BLACK DRESS felt like it had been created for this moment.

  The play of chiffon against skin, the contrast of black fabric on white shoulders and the cascading sheerness wrapped around her all felt so perfect. She was one with it.

  Adeena studied her reflection in the mirror with a mixture of happiness and regret, an unsettling feeling of complete calm and absolute terror. She never imagined that the first time she performed with the National Arts Centre Symphony Orchestra they would be playing her music.

  Or would it forever be known as Friedrich Lang’s?

  Since she lost access to the Duncan Cello nearly three weeks ago, she had begun to accept the inevitable. The music she first scribbled out as a teenager – the same eight bars Katharine Carnegie used as a starting point for her symphonic tour de force and that Adeena raised to perfection with her lyrics, was gone. She might realize her lifelong ambition to become a professional cellist, but Lang would have her music.

  She took a deep breath. The dress stared back at her from the mirror.

  Let it go, Adeena.

  That’s what her mother kept telling her. Maybe she was right.

  The doorbell rang and Philippe stood posed before her in a crisp tuxedo holding a sprawling bouquet of red roses.

  “You made it!” she exclaimed.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for all the Prime Ministers and Presidents in the universe,” Philippe laughed. He handed her the flowers and cast an appreciative eye over her and the dress. “Oh-la-la!”

  They embraced and he held her close. It was good to be wrapped in his arms again. He kissed her cheek and then slowly released her with a whisper. “I missed you.”

  “Me too. I’m glad you’re back.”

  They enjoyed a moment of silence before he spoke. “Are you ready? I thought this night would never come. Here you are, about to play at the NAC,” Philippe said smiling. “I’m so happy for you!”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden to you,” she replied, looking down at her feet. “And to everybody else, too.”

  “Nonsense!” He took her hand and raised her face up before the full-length mirror. “Look at yourself. You’ve made it through all the crap anyone could throw at you. You’re about to step into a whole new world, onto the stage in front of thousands of people. It’s where you belong. You’ve earned it.” He paused a moment. “And on top of all that, you’re not hard on the eyes!”

  She smiled at her reflection and his glowing assessment.

  “And after the performance,” Philippe continued, “I’ve got reservations at Chez Henri to celebrate!”

  “Thanks.” She should feel only happiness, but a voice inside her wanted more. She chose her words carefully. “I guess then … you didn’t get anywhere, with Lang?”

  “Lang?” Philippe repeated. He seemed to deflate a little. “You mean about the score?”

  “Yeah, I thought maybe, you…” she stopped. He’d already done so much.

  “I tried. Got my editor interested in the story, but there’s no way to prove Lange did anything.” He turned her around, so he could talk to her face-to-face. “He even copyrighted it with the Library of Congress and the Songwriters Guild.”

  Adeena bit her lip and felt wetness cloud her eyes. She didn’t want to spoil the evening. But to let go of her creation, and lose the music forever, meant that somehow, she was letting Katharine and James down. And Margaret Rose.

  And herself.

  She knew that Philippe could see the change in her face. He took her in his arms again. “That music was never
published before, there is no record of it, other than those copies you made. Unsigned photocopies unfortunately, don’t prove a hell of a lot.”

  Adeena nodded. He’s right. Maybe it’s better this way. The Duncan Cello was gone. The music was gone. Katharine and James were dead.

  It was time to find her own dream.

  WILLIAM STOOD BESIDE Jackie, who held a bouquet of carnations and a smile that he hadn’t seen in a long time. He knocked on the door of Adeena’s condo.

  “She did it,” he grinned. “Finally!”

  The door opened and Adeena greeted them with a radiance that seemed to light her from within. It reminded William of the little girl who used to take such delight in going to see the symphony with them. She would get all dressed up and just glow for the entire evening, basking in the experience, completely mesmerized by the performances.

  “Thank you,” Adeena said, before she gave both of them an extra-long hug. “Come on in.”

  They stepped inside the foyer and Philippe insisted on taking their coats. He looked at his watch. “Come, sit down. We’ve got lots of time.”

  Jackie sat beside Adeena. “You look beautiful, ma belle.” She opened her silver clutch and reached in. “I thought you might want to wear this tonight,” she said opening her hand to reveal a delicate gold cello brooch.

  Adeena took the tiny piece of jewelry. “I forgot all about this,” she said studying it closely.

  “Remember the last time you wore it?” Jackie asked. “We thought it might bring you luck, again.”

  “Like my audition, for Canterbury,” Adeena mused. “Philippe, I wore this in Grade 8 when I got accepted at the high school for the arts. My grandmother was staying with us then. She gave this to me, said it would give me sonas.”

  “Good fortune,” William interjected. “Happiness. Passion.”

  Philippe grinned. “Well in that case, you must wear it!”

  Adeena held the brooch tightly.

  “Your grandmother is still smiling at you,” William said pointing toward the ceiling. “She always knew you would make it. Told me to have faith in you. She said no force on heaven or earth could stop you. She was right.”

  “Grandma was always so good to me,” Adeena responded. Her shoulders dropped. “And now I’ve let her down,” she sighed.

  “What do you mean, belle?” her mother asked, trying to console her. “You’re going to make her so proud tonight.”

  “She sent me the music, because she wanted me to do something with it,” Adeena stammered, beginning to dissolve. “Something important. But I’ve failed her.”

  William recalled his mother’s dying words. ‘Adeena needs to save us.’ He shivered remembering her insistence on having the score couriered across the Atlantic the same day.

  “I’m letting Lang steal that music, right in front of the whole world, in front of my own family,” Adeena moaned, starting to shake. “How could I have let this happen? Oh my God!”

  Jackie wrapped her arms around her. “Adeena, it’s okay.”

  Philippe sat down across from William. “I tried to expose Lang, but there is no record of that score anywhere. I know he took it from Adeena, but he’s made it his own now.”

  William nodded. “There’s no historical record, nothing to point to.” He looked at his daughter. “But Pumpkin, I did get some new information from Scotland, from my friend, Daniel, the guide at Drummond Castle.”

  Adeena stared at him. “What?”

  “He sent copies of more letters, and even an old newspaper account. Seems like Katharine Carnegie caused quite a sensation.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Glowing reports of enchanting performances - of the music and of her voice,” he continued. “I have to think that if only that score had been published, instead of it being hidden away at Kinnaird for all those years, well, it would have found a place in the historical record.”

  “Yeah,” Philippe nodded, “I think so.”

  “If I had the Duncan Cello, I could make things right,” Adeena said, anger rising in her voice. “Make that bastard pay for stealing our music.”

  No one knew how to respond.

  Silence fell over the room.

  A ticking clock methodically recorded the passing seconds like the timer on a bomb about to explode.

  WILLIAM HOISTED ADEENA’S worn leather cello case into the back of his Volvo station wagon. “Are we all going in the same car?” He closed the trunk and looked toward his wife standing near Adeena and Philippe in the brooding light of the parking garage of Adeena’s condo.

  “Oh sacre!” Jackie cursed. “I got a run in my stocking.” She reached down and touched her calf. “Is the Rideau Centre still open?”

  William looked at his watch. “I don’t know, but Adeena’s got to be at the NAC…” he said, focusing on his wrist, “…now! They’re on at eight.”

  “We’re supposed to be there ninety-minutes before,” Adeena confirmed in a small voice.

  “Then you’re going to be late, Pumpkin.” William turned to Jackie. “You really need to go to the mall, now?”

  Jackie gave him a strange look, silently mouthing ‘Yes’ and nodding, eyebrows raised. He had been married long enough to know this was not the time to argue.

  Jackie touched Philippe’s shoulder. “Maybe I can go with him? And you take Adeena?”

  “Sure,” Philippe agreed. “My car’s right here.”

  TARA WAS HAVING a hard time completing the email to her boss.

  André had been so busy travelling and negotiating three new acquisitions, he had pretty much left things to her. Not that she minded. She felt that really, she was in charge anyway. He was more like a ceremonial monarch. Important perhaps, but not required to run the affairs of state.

  It was the model her parents gave her - a strong woman making day-to-day decisions and keeping all the gears running smoothly. It was in her DNA. But still, she needed to give her Director a summary of what had transpired with the Duncan Cello, for the record.

  Okay, so when did this all start? She looked over at her desk calendar and saw the little note on today’s date: ‘Dee concert’.

  “God.” She said, and whistled. “It’s her big night.”

  It should have been an evening to celebrate with her. Help Adeena get ready, support her in any way she could, even if it was only picking out the right shoes. They had been there for each other, for every milestone. Instead, she thought with a pang of guilt, I’m looking for a way to send to her jail.

  The fake Duncan Cello, locked away in the basement, was proof to some degree, but she had never actually caught Adeena with the real instrument. Tara knew though, that her troublesome best friend, maddening confidante, and let’s face it, surrogate sibling, had done what she had always done. Act first. Think later. Get out of jail free - thanks to big sister Tara.

  No wonder Adeena always beat her at Monopoly.

  Gotta write this email, she thought, trying to focus on what to say to André. As she clicked her mouse to start a new line, there was a tap on the door.

  “Tara?” It was Philippe. His head poked through the door. “Working late?”

  “Yes, I’m finishing up.” She rose from her chair. “Come in.”

  He stepped through the door wearing a classic tux - a slim black mohair jacket, with narrow lapels and black tie. His high-shine derby shoes gave him a sleek finish.

  “I’ve got something for you,” he said, embracing her and planting a kiss on each cheek, his musky cologne subtly teasing her. He held her a moment longer than usual. “Box seats!” He smiled, presenting her with two tickets. “Show starts at eight? You busy, mademoiselle?

  JACKIE WASN’T SURE how this was going to work, but somehow she had to try.

  As she reached the security area of the gallery, using Adeena’s security fob that Philippe had given her, she knew she had finally accepted there was something special about William’s side of the family. Adeena’s stories might be impossible, but maybe,
just maybe, not everything could be explained through science. Even as Jackie had delivered her PhD thesis debunking clairvoyance among autistic children, a shiver of doubt lingered.

  Now, she could no longer explain what was happening to her daughter.

  And sometimes, she thought, a mother just has to do what a mother has to do.

  The door to the secure area was open and she heard someone moaning.

  Curious, she knocked softly on the open door and proceeded inside slowly. She stopped dead in her tracks as she was confronted with the sight of two men a few feet in front of her. One had his pants down to his ankles while the other was performing fellatio on him with reckless abandon.

  “I’m sorry,” Jackie blurted out, averting her eyes.

  “Fuck!” the man on the receiving end shouted, pushing the other man off him. “Who are you?” He quickly pulled his pants up as his partner scurried behind the desk.

  “I’m Jackie. Adeena Stuart’s mother?”

  The startled man looked pale and trembled as he spoke. “What do you want? With me?”

  “Are you Michael?” Jackie inquired, still flushed from the scene she just witnessed.

  “Yes,” he warbled. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  Jackie smiled. Not something she witnessed everyday admittedly, but somehow rather than embarrassing her, it filled her with confidence for the request she was about to make. “That’s okay, it doesn’t bother me. I’m only here to try and help Adeena.”

  There was a long moment of silence. “How?”

  “I need the Duncan Cello.”

  The other man who she had just seen on his knees in a rather uncompromising position with his mouth full of his friend’s penis - now popped up from behind the desk. He looked worried as he stared first at Jackie and then at Michael who seemed to be considering her request.

  “Pablo,” Michael challenged his partner with a measured tone. “We need to help her.”

  TARA CONTEMPLATED PHILIPPE’S offer. “I’d love to, but I’m not sure if I can go to the NAC without having her arrested.”